My Sweet Enemy
by Sephielya J. Maxwell
Summary: In 1382, Russia suffered the start of many crushing defeats from the Horde. During his retreat, he runs across another enemy. Instead of attacking the wounded nation, this enemy offers a moment of uneasy solace.


A/N

My knowledge of this era is by no means complete. However I have done somewhat extensive research to make sure what history I mention is correct. If something is left vague, it's simply because I don't want to make a historical mistake! They are about the ages of 13—14 here. The second part of this would be really… angsty, to say the least, so I may not post that here.

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1382

Everything hurt. The very air around him seemed to prick and tear at his skin. His wounds all throbbed hotly, not at all calmed by the chill of the air. General Winter's embrace was _never _a comfort. His right shoe had a hole in it, but he couldn't feel his toes anymore anyway. Crusted blood made a lump out of the hair over his left temple, and several places in his clothing. He'd lost his sword somewhere on the field in his panic to retreat.

_Retreat. _What a cowardly thing to do. But he couldn't face that again, his spirit was too crushed. He had felt it, the will of his people fleeting like a flock of birds away from the wolf that charged towards them. He'd left tracks, he knew it. Deep tracks which flowed into one another because of his dragging feet. He placed his hand onto a tree, breath so cold that it barely created a cloud in front of his pale, nearly light blue lips. Only his pink nose and cheeks held any color at all. Glancing back behind him, he leaned heavily on that arm. Oh, not only tracks. There was blood, too. A trail that the great wolf was sure to pick up the scent of. Dry skin slid against the smooth bark of the tree that he leaned against, and he went down without a struggle.

_Ah, _but the snow was so soft… Even as it began to melt and seep into his clothing, he didn't move a muscle. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe they were frozen too. His eyebrow twitched, irritating the cut above it. _No. _He had to keep moving. It was the only way to stay alive. He could fall back and regroup, if he could just keep himself from those cold hands! But Muscovy… It was lost for now. He felt it suddenly, the cold presence which always hung over him like the shadow of death its self. "_Go away…_" He murmured to him. "_You are never any help to me._" Cursed, damned creature. The General wasn't a nation, so why did he exist at all? And why was he so intent on claiming his heart?

"_Labas_?"

Ivan's eyes snapped open, suddenly very aware of every limb again. That was not the General's voice. He sat straight up, elbows cracking as if they were broken icicles. Only snow and bare trees greeted his eyes.

"Oh, you're alive!" That voice came again, from behind. He turned his head, neck which nearly creaked in protest. How long _had _he been laying in the snow? His vision was slightly blurry, but he could make out a shape, hear the sounds. The clank of metal and chain, and footsteps crunching on the thick blanket of snow. It took all he had to sit back on his heels, turning to let his back rest against the tree. That armor… Not Mongolian. Wait, that language… The silver of that very armor seemed to blend in with the gray around them, but that hair came into focus as the figure knelt down. Brunette… "_Oh._" Something touched his cheek, something _warm. _"You're _him._" It was _their _language. The neutral language of nations.*

Ivan blinked his eyes, fighting to focus harder. Green eyes stared into his own, and realization came to him. He reached up to smack that hand away, but he grabbed the wrist instead. Opened his chapped and split lips to speak, but nothing came out aside from a slight squeak. "_Dievai, _you're really wounded…" That voice was soft and low with concern. He didn't want pity!

"_L…Let go of me, Litva._" He managed a cracked whisper.

"No, it's alright! I won't hurt you." The other nation protested. But the hand he left on Ivan's cheek began to burn. No, both of his cheeks were warming up. Why did this nation have to see him _now_? "It was the Horde, right? I'm sorry. I know you fought hard…"

"_Stop talking…_!" Ivan coughed, his lungs shaking as the cold dry air irritated them.

"I'm sorry." Brows furrowed, and Ivan hated it. No one showed him pity, or kindness. They all wanted to take advantage of him while he was weak—controlled. Under the yoke of the Tartars. Even this one… "What is your name now?"

"_Pick one._" Ivan shrugged, and it caused his shoulders to ache. "_Muscovy, Novgorod, sometimes even Rus._" Why was he even answering? "_Why_?"

"Can't I know the name of the nation I want to have someday?" That made Ivan's eyes widen. A moment later he laughed, and it didn't even matter that his lungs were on fire, or that it ended with him doubled over with a hacking cough. He was still chuckling as he looked back up, heaving a sigh.

"_My boss wants you too._" He admitted. Wasn't that just the way that it was? Litva was smiling too. He reached into his pouch, pulling out a handkerchief. Licking the corner of it a few times, he dabbed at the cut on Ivan's temple. "_Ow, stop that._" The tired Russian tried to brush it away, but the other nation's free hand stopped him. Ivan sighed, letting him do as he pleased. They were both quiet for a while, and soon enough the area was clean. "_Are you going to lick __**all **__of my wounds_?" Ivan asked with a raised brow. "_The wounds of your enemy_?"

"You are _not _my enemy." Litva said firmly. "Your boss is my enemy. Or your bosses if that is the case. I would never wish to cause _you_ harm."

"_You have._" Ivan swallowed. Litva reached to his other hip, unhooking his canteen. He held it up to Ivan's lips.

"I'm sorry." And he _meant _it, and that was the hardest thing to bear. Ivan took three long swallows of the cold water. It froze him all the way to his stomach, but it wet his throat.

"_Ah. _Stop saying that." His voice came back. "You attacked Moscow, and then you nearly destroyed Smolensk."

"You know I don't have a choice. No more than any of us do. I mean it though, I'm sorry that I hurt you." Litva was wincing as he replaced the cork on his canteen, replacing it on his hip. Ivan waved his hand as if waving that comment away. Violet eyes rose to those emerald ones, and his brows furrowed.

"Why don't you just take me now?" _Please. Please take me now, before __**he **__finds me…_

"You know that's not how it works. And I can't risk harboring you." Litva frowned, though he seemed hurt by that comment. "I've taken so much already, the Horde is watching me."

"I know." _He tells me, at night._

"Toris."

"What?" Ivan frowned.

"My name is Toris, not Litva. Well, it's Litva, Lietuva in my language. Litwa in Polish, and…"

"I get it." Ivan said. He cast his eyes away, fingers digging into the snow, and the mud beneath. "…Ivan." He said quietly.

"Nice to meet you, Ivan." Toris took a hold of Ivan's free hand. "So… Can we be friends yet?"

"Of course not." Ivan scoffed. Toris frowned.

"Why not?"

"You can see for yourself. I'm not strong enough yet." Ivan gestured to himself.

"I don't mind." Toris protested.

"_I _do. We only see each other on the battlefield. We can't be friends until I beat you, and bring you into my house." Ivan explained. Toris shook his head.

"What if I beat _you_?"

"That won't happen. Once I'm through with **him**, I promise you'll be next." Ivan's eyebrows lowered, his violet eyes cold and hard. Toris swallowed, for a moment believing this weak and injured nation could really do it.

"_Pah,_" Toris sat back on his heel, tossing up one hand. "You're stubborn."

"_Hmm,_" Ivan hummed, "**He** says that too." A smile. "Somehow, I like it a lot better coming from you."

"You're a little daft, aren't you?" One eyebrow rose.

"You've no idea, L… Toris." His cheeks became warm again. If only he could ally with this nation, join his sisters. But Toris was too smart to fully provoke the Horde. While he fought to capture all that Kievan Rus once was, he was patient. And Ivan proved stubborn for a slave of a nation, fighting for freedom and holding his own against foreign invaders. It sent a shudder down along Toris' spine. He unhooked his canteen again, laying it down on Ivan's lap.

"Keep it. I need to get back home before they come looking for me and find you." He moved to stand, but Ivan grabbed his wrist with a grip like an iron shackle. Violet eyes were a little wide, and Toris recognized that expression. _Terror._

"Please," Ivan winced to even say the word. He _hated _begging. "_Please, _if you see **him**…"

"I won't say anything. I'm not that cruel. Get back to your sanctuary safely, where ever that might be for you right now. If he gets a hold of you, he'll not likely let go so easily this time." Ivan's grip relaxed, fingers slipping from that warm armor one by one. He didn't want to say thank you.

"You don't have to tell _me._" He replied bitterly. Toris only gave a single nod.

"Goodbye for now, Ivan. May we meet on the battlefield again soon." It sounded like such a strange thing to say from a nation which had just confessed that he wished his neighbor no harm. But Ivan understood it more deeply than that. If they met on the battlefield, it meant he wasn't resting within **his **clutches.

"_Da. _On the battlefield, where I will defeat you." Ivan replied, though he wasn't looking at the other nation at all this time. Toris gave a sigh, not believing it for a moment. He didn't speak another word. Turning on his heel, he left on the path that Ivan had gotten there on. Turning his head, he watched those armored feet drag, destroying and erasing his tracks. Suddenly there were drops of red, and his eyes moved up to Toris' waist just as his neighbor wiped the blade on his tunic, replacing the dagger. His left hand bled freely, the drops falling right over Ivan's.

_Stupid, foolish nation. _Ivan thought. _You're naïve. You don't know pain, don't know defeat. You're a conqueror, and you show me kindness because you seek to one day have me. Don't you realize I will not return that kindness when I take __**you**__? I am not your friend. I can't be. Not until the day that I possess you. _

And he wanted to. So _very _badly. He didn't want to stop with getting his sisters back, and defeating the Horde. He wanted to go all the way to the Baltic Sea, and own it all. His laugh was dry, and no one was around to hear it but Ivan himself. Some day, when he was strong… He was going look into those frightened and surprised green eyes as he cleaned up the blood, and only then would he say, 'I didn't want to hurt you. I had no choice. _Now _we are friends _moy dorogaya odin._'**

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_Labas _is the Lithuanian casual way to say 'Hello', like saying 'Hi'.

_Dievai _means Gods in Lithuanian. They were still pagan at this point in time.

*It is kind of my headcanon that all nations can speak a neutral language that they all share, which would explain how they can all communicate with each other despite their own languages.

**My dear one. (Translated as asked by many reviewers. ^^; Also my translator is asleep, and so _moy _may be _moya _properly, because ending with an a is feminine I think. /Is not perfect without my _dorogaya lyublyu, _Arafel! )


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